Читать книгу I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks - Adele Parks, Adele Parks - Страница 21

14

Abigail

Abigail lay on the sofa bed, her long, tanned limbs stretched out in front of her. The room was not dark enough – the girls preferred the landing light to stay on during the night and the bedroom door didn’t quite fit as snugly as would have been ideal, so light flooded under and over. Also, the room was too hot. She’d tried turning the radiator down but it didn’t seem to make any difference. She got out of bed and flung open the window. The cold night air rushed in, a relief. Ben’s words floated around Abigail’s head. ‘You know what you need, Abi. You need to get back in the saddle.’

Back in the saddle.

Giddy up.

People wanted her to move on. They were bored of her mooning. Rob had stopped loving her and, chivvy along now, she had to stop loving him. Giddy up. The thought made her smile. It was a good idea. He was right; there was no time to waste. No more time. You know what you need, Abi. You need to get back in the saddle. She wondered, just briefly, was it a suggestion or an offer? They seemed like such a happy couple but who knew? No one ever really knew what went on in a relationship.

Abigail checked her emails. Even though it was a Saturday, Rob had sent her two: one from him and one from his lawyer. He must have his lawyer working on this around the clock. Naturally he had; he knew he was in trouble. Being caught having sex is pretty damning evidence of fault. She planned to take him to the cleaners. Make him pay in every way she could. His email suggested they could make this divorce quick, clean, and as painless as possible. Fuck that. She saw that offer for what it was: a man who knew he was going to be paying through the nose, running scared. She opened the email from the lawyer and looked at the details of the proposed settlement. It was fair enough, some might say, not exactly generous, but reasonable. She typed her response.

Fuck you.

She was drunk enough to think this was hilarious and bold.

She was sober enough to regret it the moment she pressed send. She wondered whether it was possible to recall emails and Googled it. She wasn’t sure, even after she’d read the chat forums debating the issue. It seemed it was but the recipient would know you’d done so. That was just as bad. Worse. She’d rather Rob think she was bold and rash than cowed and insecure.

She started to cry. She hated crying, it was ageing and hopeless, defeatist.

She heard a quiet knock at the door, so quiet she hardly dared call, ‘Come in.’ Slowly the door opened just a couple of inches. He put his head around.

‘I thought you might need water, too?’

Abi hurriedly brushed the tears away; she didn’t want him to see them. ‘Oh, thanks, yes.’ He handed her a glass of iced water. Thoughtful, not tepid from the bathroom tap. Their fingers brushed together.

You can’t make some things up, you can’t imagine them, even if you want to wish them away or even if you plan to ignore them. There was a flicker of electricity. It shot through her arm, her shoulder, her chest and then down into the pit, the core of her body. She hadn’t felt anything like it for years. She met his eye, acknowledging the flash that had just lit between them. Those things were always two-way, weren’t they? She felt it, he must have. A bee sting of sexual attraction. He looked her in the eye and no doubt noticed she’d been crying. ‘Get some sleep, Abi,’ he instructed, as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

And she did sleep. She dreamed she was riding a horse over a prairie. She was riding it hard, could feel its size and strength beneath her; between her legs, she felt its muscles ripple next to her thighs. She was breathless and free. Excited and able. It felt real, as she bumped up and down on the warm, leather saddle.